


The Devil

by tiger_moran



Series: Lyric [2]
Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Sherlock Holmes (Downey films), Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: Don't copy to another site, Gen, Implied/Referenced Suicide, Pre-Canon, Pre-Relationship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-31
Updated: 2020-10-31
Packaged: 2021-03-08 20:21:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,288
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27292630
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tiger_moran/pseuds/tiger_moran
Summary: Second in a collection of standalone but also interconnected Moriarty and Moran fics inspired by lyrics from songs, particularly pop/rock songs.
Series: Lyric [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1992709
Comments: 2
Kudos: 9





	The Devil

**Author's Note:**

> Blue Stahli - The Devil
> 
> Forcing of the hand, a whisper in the ear  
> Spirit of enabling  
> Sinister command of what I want to hear  
> I'm the only one who pulls my strings

“Such a sad waste,” Moriarty says, a sly smile on his face, rapping his knuckles on the newspaper that lies folded in half on the table, tapping the word _suicide_ in particular, part of the headline referring to the untimely demise of one Anthony Smythe. “Do you not agree, Daniel?”

“Yes sir,” says the small somewhat beady-eyed man in the checked suit who stands off to the side. Porter, one of his most trusted men, not exactly brilliant in his thinking, but he is reliable and capable enough at certain tasks. “A very sad waste of life.” His face shows not even a flicker of sadness.

“Of course if men will dally with the powers they know nothing about and cannot hope to control, well, one is hardly surprised if they end up taking their own lives as a result.”

“No sir.”

“Human beings are a strange species,” Moriarty remarks, picking up his teacup and taking a sip of its contents.

“Yes sir.” Porter does notice that the Professor speaks in such a way as to make it sound as if he himself is not included in the human race, but Porter is used to that. He has spent long enough now associating with the man, hardly closely enough to be able to call himself a friend – Moriarty in fact probably doesn't even _have_ friends, but Porter knows he is trusted, and he experiences a certain amount of pride about that fact. In his own way he thinks perhaps the Professor is fond of him, and in turn Porter has become strangely fond of the queer old cove too.

He knows better though than to interject when the Professor starts discoursing on some topic or other – Moriarty doesn't want someone to talk with so much as he desires someone to talk _at_.

“Within most of them seems to be this strange self-destructive drive – odd, yet also rather fascinating. And yet... they cannot bear to take responsibility for anything they do. Always it is someone else's fault - _the devil made me do it;_ _my friend led me astray;_ _it was my wife's fault for demanding beautiful things I could not afford_. They delude themselves, try to convince themselves that they could not possibly have done these things because _they_ desired something; even simply because they wanted to do it. No, they must have their scapegoats, their object of blame.”

_He did it, not I_ , Smythe is recorded as saying, prior to his demise. _Whatever I did, he told me to do it,_ yet he was at a loss to explain precisely who 'he' even was. Lies, of course, but with perhaps the merest sliver of truth buried within. Smythe, a banker, wanted money for himself, primarily to pacify his wife who craved the latest fashions, the beautiful dresses and the dead exotic animals draped around her shoulders. Smythe turned to Moriarty for advice, though without of course ever knowing the true identity of the man he sought guidance from or to whom he was paying money – a consultancy fee, of sorts. The idea to surreptitiously rob his wealthy clients came from Smythe himself, not from the Professor. Moriarty merely steered him down a particular course, informing him of the best way of procuring his much-desired funds. It is hardly Moriarty's fault that the man got greedy and sloppy and that after successfully obtaining the amount he had previously specified that he wanted, he decided to try for far more and got caught out this time. It is even less the Professor's fault that after being exposed as a cheat and a thief, Smythe's wife left him. After that, unable to bear the shame of it all, Smythe then took a straight razor to his own throat and that was that. All very pathetic really, and if men are intent on being so stupid and reckless and ignoring his perfectly good advice, then Moriarty certainly cannot be blamed for that either. He may pull certain people's strings now and then, sometimes for profit, sometimes because it amuses him, but he has never truly _forced_ anyone to do anything. If he has exploited them, that is only because they had already something within them that he could easily exploit; they are only looking for an excuse to give in to their own dark desires.

It was that self-destructive instinct, that odd death drive, at work again, perhaps, Smythe's suicide. Had he not reached above himself and tried to divert even more money into his own bank account, he could have lived perfectly happily for many years no doubt. But he couldn't help himself, and thus now he is dead and his name will be tarnished for a little while, until the world entirely forgets about such a petty and inconsequential man. Moriarty himself will have entirely pushed all thoughts of that sad little human being out of his mind well before the end of breakfast.

He gazes off across the table, across the plate he has just cleared of bacon, sausage and eggs, past the toast-rack and the teapot, as if looking into some place, some realm into which Porter cannot see.

“Sir?” Porter says at length, and Moriarty slowly turns his gaze back upon him. “I got that photograph you wanted.”

“Ah, excellent.” Moriarty glances again at the table, snatching up the paper and folding it over again. He hands this to Porter. “You may dispose of this now.”

“Right.” Porter takes the paper and tucks it under his arm before pulling something out of his inner pocket. A photograph, slipped into a wallet to give it some protection. He offers this carefully to the Professor, who takes it between his forefingers and holds it before him, just above his lap, peering at it with a strange degree of reverence.

It is of a man, a soldier clearly, in dress uniform. The photograph conveys very clearly that this man was probably coerced or outright bullied into having this photograph taken; that he hated every moment of this; that posing and preening for the camera was anathema to him. There is resentment etched into his face, and boredom too, yet there is such a proud, defiant tilt to his chin even so. In his own way the man is probably handsome enough, though this is not something Moriarty has any especial interest in. What interests him far more is this person's reputation – best marksman in the army; scrupulously loyal to his own regiment, but overall rebellious, dangerous even, and as unstable as nitroglycerin. Moriarty is not entirely sure, as yet, but he suspects already that there is something within this man he may be able to utilise.

He leans across the table and props the photograph up against the sugar bowl, continuing to regard it as he spreads marmalade onto a slice of toast. He has other pictures of this man, some far more... _questionable_ than others, but it pleases him to have this one, where he can see the fellow far more clearly.

“When is he due to arrive in London?”

“In two days.”

Moriarty takes a bite of toast, chews it carefully and swallows it before speaking again. “Well then, once he arrives there we will allow him a little time to get settled in, then I shall arrange a meeting with him.”

“Right.”

“You may go now, thank you.”

“Right sir. Goodbye then.” Porter exits, the newspaper still tucked under his arm, wondering if he's too late to cadge some of those nice sausages from the cook, and Moriarty is left alone to contemplate the photograph of that soldier chap whose name, Porter knows, is pencilled in another's hand on the back of the photograph - _Colonel Sebastian Moran._


End file.
